


In-your-face wrestle-a-thon.

by letosatie



Series: The glory of Origin. [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Drinking, M/M, Sports, top!Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letosatie/pseuds/letosatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's game two and both Charles and Erik are drawn to the Outback bar to enjoy State of Origin Rugby League and each other, as they have for almost a decade.   But something is different this time around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In-your-face wrestle-a-thon.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Phil Gould's report of the game published for the Newcastle Herald.
> 
> Series title is from deathgod777's comment.
> 
> This fic follows 'Epic opener' which should probably be read first.

Charles scurried to the nearest tube station, clasping his coffee two handed. It was too early for Charles to rise and shine; rise and zombie shuffle was manageable though. 

He hobbled the last few feet to catch the train, and collapsed gratefully into a seat. He reminded himself he would see Erik in half an hour and instantly became both perkier and warmer. His mind provided helpful flashbacks of the first round after match celebrations: Erik’s ropey biceps straining against the tension of Charles’ cummerbund, which was wrapped firmly around Erik’s wrists and the headboard, Erik’s gorgeous cock on Charles’ tongue, heavy and rigid and yet velvety soft, the fervour in Erik’s steel gaze as Charles entered him.

Charles had muttered, “God, Erik, you are so tight. It’s like no one’s even been up here since me last year.” And Erik, gritting his jaw against the pain as he adjusted to Charles’ intrusion, flicked his eyes away from Charles in indecision and then back again and Charles could see he’d stumbled on the truth. He groaned, “Erik,” and leaned forward and gathered the incredible gift up into his arms as he attempted to bury himself in the sexiest man he’d ever met. The usual buoyancy of their encounters was missing, replaced by an upsurge of intensity. Charles had completely lost himself in the pitch and swell of his orgasm and the noise Erik made during his, a sound which had been reverberating in Charles’ skull for the last three weeks. 

Charles had found it almost impossible to put on his rumpled tux and leave last time and he was starting to wonder how he would manage at the end of today.

He was getting some funny looks in his costume, even though his long coat was covering most of it, but his face was completely blue. He drained the rest of the coffee and tossed the cup in a bin on his way out of the station. The walk to the Outback was hideously slow. Or it just seemed interminable.

Charles pulled his hat out of his coat pocket and put it on just before he pushed open the Outback’s thick wooden door and looked eagerly, if nervously, around for Erik. The tall man was saving a perfectly positioned table near the big screen and looking around frowning, the maroon stripes on his cheekbones thick and stark. Charles laughed and waved. Erik’s eyes comically widened and he mouthed, “Charles?” Charles made rather a production of taking off his coat to reveal his bare, but blue, arms and torso, white tights that hid nothing and the floppy white hat. Charles made sure to turn around and waggle a small, ball-shaped blue tail at Erik.

He was getting some applause from some of the other New South Wales supporters, but his focus was for Erik’s laughter, let loose across the busy pub. 

“You are crazy,” Erik told him. “You’re a Smurf?”

Charles nodded happily.

“Can I hug you? Or will I get all blue?”

“Hug me, blue isn’t catching… unfortunately.”

Erik gathered him in for a heartfelt hug, then handed him a Coopers.

“Now that’s a greeting,” said Charles.

Erik waited until Charles had taken his first gulps of frosty ale, then asked, “Betting the same terms?”

“Yes,” confirmed Charles, “and I will enjoy my reward when the Blues win every bit as much as I did last time.” He dropped his searing, blue eyes to Erik’s arse, leaning slightly away from the table to see the behind of the taller man. 

“We’ll see,” said Erik, taking the chance for his own pervy moment. They’d just agreed that if Charles’ team was leading in points, Erik had to buy their beer, and vice versa. Also, the winning team’s supporter got to top during Charles and Erik’s enthusiastic and adventurous post match sex session.

Charles went to the bar to get a round, they were only a few sips into their first beer but the match was about to kick off. 

When it did, Erik’s team scored first, Thurston kicking a penalty. Charles huffed and went to the bar again. The bar owner, was pulling pints. He waggled his eyebrows at Charles. When he drew a couple of pints and slid them to the 5’7” Smurf, he waved away Charles’ money. “You get this round for pure balls, mate,” he chuckled.

“Fair enough,” said Charles, “after all, you can see them pretty well in these damn things.” He adjusted said tights and winked at the elderly indigenous Australian. “Thanks Gateway,” said Charles and made his way back to Erik.

“Why do you support these losers?” Erik asked Charles as he returned with the beer.

“You know, how I got involved in League, right? Trying to win a girl’s heart at Oxford, switched codes because she supported League. And, she was from Newcastle in New South Wales, supported the Knights in NRL. That’s how it started, and then I just started backing them for themselves. It’s as good a reason as any. We can’t all have sunned ourselves at the Great Barrier Reef, pretending to study sharks while really watching men in ghastly maroon chasing a ball.”

“You stuck with them even over the last dire eight years?”

“It wasn’t all bad,” said Charles, his voice dipping half an octave. He was watching Erik from under an arched eyebrow.

“I love State of Origin,” said Erik, and Charles smirked. “Did it work, by the way? Your tactics to win the girl?”

“Well, yes, as it stands, she was keen to go out with me by half way through the season, but…”

“But, what…?”

“But by then I was having sweaty, post training, locker room sex with the full back and let me tell you, he really did have the most competent hands in the team.”

Erik watched Charles swallow some beer. “Your hands are pretty safe,” he offered.

Charles laughed. “I was stand-off,” he reminded Erik.

“That makes sense. You’re brainy, excellent under pressure, accurate hands and feet and, despite being a short arse, you could do some serious damage when you tackle.” Erik knew from experience that puppy eyes and slightly too long hair, shortness and baby-soft skin distracted from a set of solid arms, a steel plate torso and extremely muscular legs. Although, currently that delicious body was on display for everyone in the bar, thin white spandex and blue body paint covering bugger all. 

Myles took an elbow to the face during a tackle and punched out from the ground. Charles started yelling for a penalty. Erik looked sulky and furious. The ref made the call that the elbow happened first and penalized James Tamou and New South Wales. Erik, while pleased the call went his way, was also chuckling over the incongruity of violent expletives leaving his small companion’s mouth in velvety British tones. Thurston kicked the penalty and Erik shoved his glass in his friend’s face so the blue man went for refills. He ordered breakfast while he was at it.

“We’re winning. I will be taking my revenge today,” Erik threatened, when Charles came back with beers and a table number. “I had to wear turtle necks and cravats for a week after last time with your overenthusiastic hickeys… and I live in Florida!”

“That was art,” Charles insisted, “hickey art. Blood and skin the medium, your exquisite neck the canvas.”

“Revenge,” said Erik, darkly.

During half time, Charles said, “Erik?”

“Yes?”

“You fly all the way from Florida to watch these matches here?”

“It just wouldn’t be the same anywhere else… with anyone else,” Erik said.

Charles touched his arm. “I’d never presume to demand it, Erik, but I’m really glad you’re here.”

The smiled shyly at each other, though Charles thought it was odd to be shy with someone you’d had sex with three times a year for nine years. “You realise, it’s our tenth year together? I mean, watching this together.” 

“Yeah,” said Erik, “it makes me feel a bit old.”

“Whatever, we were babies that first year we met. I’d just got back to New York after graduating.”

The second half started. Charles was starting to lean on Erik. Erik wanted to press a kiss on that ridiculous hat, but they’ve never shown that level of affection in the pub, brief touches only and hot, longing looks that probably gave the game away anyway.

The game on screen heated up, Sam Thaiday dummied to the right and swerved left, diving for the try line, Erik had both arms in the air, roaring, but Jarryd Hayne brushed the ball out of Thaiday’s hands before he landed. Erik was celebrating and Charles was protesting. The ref declared no try. Looking distinctly ticked off, Erik sent Charles to the bar again.

In the last ten minutes, Charles went nuts. New South Wales was harassing Queensland in their half. Then Hodkinson feinted one way but ran straight, straight through a gap and scored the first try of the match. He converted his own try. The Blues were leading by two points, but there was no time to enforce the rule and make Erik buy beer, there were six heart pounding, insane minutes. Charles was howling at the players. Erik was accusing the ref of running the clock out. 

But run out it did. New South Wales won the series for the first time since 2005.

Erik should have been heartbroken but he was too busy watching Charles bouncing off the barstools and the other blue clad supporters, drumming his fists on the bar top and Erik’s chest. He was actually making hooting sounds. Erik wondered how he was so attracted to a hooting man dressed like a Smurf. And yet, all he could think about was washing the blue off, rubbing it off inch by inch, peeling off the damn white spandex and getting his fill before he had to say goodbye for another year. 

After heady celebration on Charles’ part, another beer and a shot of tequila on Erik’s, Charles was ready to leave. Erik led him down the street.

“Where’s the hotel?” Charles asked, “Is it the same as last month?”

“Not much further my little Smurf,” Erik promised him, tugging him a bit closer under his arm.

At Erik’s hotel room, Charles stripped off on the way to the shower. He stopped at the door and beckoned Erik, “Come on then.”

Erik followed, dumping items of clothing in transit. Charles was washing the blue off his face so Erik began to soap his arms and back and, as feathers of blue sunk out of sight down the drain, Erik began to lick newly exposed freckles and milk white skin.

Once clean, Charles hauled Erik out of the shower and dragged him to the bed. There was no games this time, no sassy flirting, no showing off. They weren’t giggling, they weren’t joking. Charles was frantic, frustrated, overwhelmed with a need to possess. He bit Erik on the shoulder and inhaled, like he could keep Erik in his lungs. Erik had his hands everywhere on Charles, fast swipes, mapping the smooth plains and crevices of his body, fingers fluttering as if reading Braille. There was almost no sound: rustling, panting, a creak of bone, and then a plaintive, “Charles, please.”

Charles flipped him, pressed him face first into the mattress, and made short work of preparation. He covered Erik entirely with his body, poising briefly above him while making the first slow push inside, and then sliding his chest up and down on Erik’s back as he thrust slowly and deeply. Charles felt like crying. It was heavenly and not enough. Erik was making pretty gasps and whines as if he was lost but trusted Charles entirely to bring him home. 

Charles whimpered, “Erik,” and Erik let out the same noise from last time, a pleading growl, and words tumbled unbidden from Charles’ throat, “I wish you were mine.”

Erik stopped moving, the power evident in his corded muscles was taut, ready to snap. His head jerked slightly.

Charles wasn’t even breathing.

“I am,” confessed Erik, voice not more than a rasp. He pushed up on one elbow to twist around and look tentatively at Charles. “I have been for years.”

Charles pulled out and rolled Erik onto his back. He sealed his mouth on Erik’s and dragged his lips over it, a hopeless, hard, stifling kiss, only pulling away when Erik made a soft, begging sound in his throat. “And you will be for years,” he promised, “all of them.”

They kissed with no space between them. Erik was smiling, half his face was teeth. Charles wriggled his hand in between them, pulled off the condom and wrapped his strong hand around both their cocks, and they came watching each other gradually accept it would never be the same again.


End file.
